*airplane

j-adore-hale asked:

you already know how i feel about your writing <3. I'd love to see a fic where Stiles gets the flu or something, and Derek comes over and takes care of him, but is so hostile and mean about it that Stiles thinks Derek's there to kill him via alphabet soup burns or give him an overdose of cough syrup. When Derek's just mad because Stiles let himself get sick in the first place.

Enjoy 2k of Derek’s soup assassination attempts! I’m also posting this on an airplane. I am god. :)

(Also 10/10 PROMPT FILLS MOTHERFUCKERS)

Stiles is ninety-nine percent certain Derek is trying to kill him.

He peers cautiously out from under the frankly obscene amount of blankets draped over him and the couch, eyeing Derek, who’s in the kitchen stirring a pot of soup with so much force, Stiles is half afraid he’s going to break the spoon. Or the pot. The cast iron pot.

Stiles ducks back under the covers and wonders if Derek’s going to try pouring scalding soup over him, considering his earlier attempt on Stiles’ life didn’t work. As if Stiles would let someone kill him with a simple cough syrup overdose! His defenses may be down because he’s sick, but he won’t be killed that easily!

Now if only he could figure out how to get Derek out of his house before things get any worse. Unfortunately, Derek’s here under the guise of kindness and caring for a sick friend, and if Stiles tries to kick him out, there’s no doubt that he’ll end up being the one painted as the aggressor with Derek as the victim.

Fuck. His. Life.

He pokes his head out from under the blankets again as he feels an intimidating presence looming over him. Derek glares down at him, a bowl clutched tightly in his hands. Idly, Stiles wonders if he’s going to have to switch all their dishes to plastic in order to properly werewolf-proof the house. Hell, he probably should have done it years ago.

“Eat,” Derek demands, placing the bowl on the nearby coffee table.

“Okay, but can you really eat soup?” Stiles asks, his throat sore and raspy as he pulls the covers around him again so that only his eyes and nose poke out. “I mean, it’s primarily broth, right? So shouldn’t I drink it?”

“There are noodles,” Derek replies, as if that solves this whole existential dilemma.

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